


Grail

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Canon, Bittersweet, Bondage, Come Swallowing, Gangbang, Multi, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 01:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5766145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur gives himself to his knights after a victory. Merlin cares for him afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grail

**Author's Note:**

> Although the main romantic pairing in this fic is Arthur/Merlin, most of the fic is an Arthur-centric gangbang, with large numbers of named and unnamed knights having sex with Arthur.

***

This is how the knights of Camelot celebrate a victory: by worshipping their king's body.

It's summer; the night is as warm as their blood. Arthur lies on soft pillows: linen filled with the cottongrass fluff. His arms and legs are splayed, tied to stakes driven deep into the dark earth. His eyes are already unfocused, his body flushed. 

Merlin sits between his thighs, prepares him. The ancient magic affecting all true-born royals is doing its part: no grease is needed. There is already a damp spot on the extra pillows keeping Arthur's backside raised. He wets for Merlin, always have done.

"Merlin," Arthur groans, commanding despite the strange heat that comes over him once a battle is won. "Bring me my men! Let them come to me!"

Merlin drags a cool hand along Arthur's hot thigh. "Shh, they'll come, Sire. They'll be brimming with seed for you. They'll plough you good and deep."

His words make Arthur tremble, tug at the ropes. It's a good thing he's tied down. He'd have hurt himself if he wasn't.

"Sir Lancelot," Merlin says. "Help the king."

Lancelot is pillowing Arthur's head in his lap. 

"There, there, Sire." He takes a length of cloth and gags Arthur. 

He remains where he is, gently petting his king's hair. Its gold is dark now, tarnished with sweat.

The only sounds, apart from the curlews out on the moor, is the _slick-slick_ of Merlin's diligent fingers and the muted sounds coming from Arthur's mouth. 

Arthur's manhood is tied at the root with a cord. Like the ropes keeping him tied down, it's made of heather. He must not be allowed relief until every knight, every squire, every page boy has emptied his balls on him or in him. 

Merlin speeds up and Arthur writhes, but cannot escape. His eyelids are drooping by the time Merlin stops.

"Sir Leon!"

The knight approaches, having waited halfway between the bound king and the expectant men. He walks stiffly and he keeps touching the bulge visible in his breeches. "My Lord Merlin? Is the king ready?"

"The king is ready," Merlin confirms. "Fetch the men."

Leon does. They all come: dark-eyed, red-mouthed. They're like starved wolves.

Merlin rises to his feet and Arthur whines. The gag is gone. Lancelot ties his eyes, instead. Hoodwinked, Arthur will not know individual knights, but give himself to them collectively.

"You have known victory," Merlin declares. The men begin to undress. "And now you will conquer. Feast on your king's body!"

He steps aside when the men gather closer. Beastly in their lust, they would probably tear him to pieces if he tried to stop them. They crouch next to Arthur. They sniff the air around him, follow the scent-trails along his hot skin. They lick at him, even bite. They rub their hard, wet cocks on his body. Someone pinches a nipple. Arthur moans.

Some of the men, too far away to reach their king, begin kissing and fondling each other, overcome by his scent of peat and honey.

Arthur cries out: needy, greedy. Someone sticks a fat cock in his mouth and everything stops for a moment. There is silence, until the sound of Arthur's suckling is heard. He is as desperate for the nourishment as a babe would be for the milk in its mother's teat.

The men roar. The slap of engorged flesh against bare skin intensifies. Red cock heads – angry, helmeted little warriors – attacking Arthur's golden skin, leaving damp marks, like kisses.

There is a brief tussle, before they remember themselves: the spoils of war are distributed according to worth. Tonight the honour of spearing open the holy grail between their king's thighs falls to Elyan. It was his sword that killed the Saxon king. He crouches on the ground, his cock standing proudly in front of him, already aligned towards his reward.

"Oh, Sire." Elyan's voice trembles with passion. He bows, presses a kiss to Arthur's overfull sac. "Sire, I thank you for the gift of your surrender. In return, I offer you my seed, just as I would offer my heart's blood to protect you, should you need it."

The cock in Arthur's mouth is temporarily gone, but it has calmed him. He smiles, unseeing. "I accept your offer. Now let your king give himself to you. Take me!"

Elyan does not wait to be told again. He thrusts hard, drives his cock all the way inside his king. Arthur cries out, but the cry is muted when his mouth is filled to the brim again. Percival, or Gwaine, perhaps. Arthur's mouth will not be empty long enough for him to cry again, not for hours yet.

When Elyan peaks, the men cheer. Things get rowdy again. Someone else takes Elyan's place: Lancelot, who saved the king's life. He slides inside while Elyan is retreating, makes sure his king is not left wanting. 

The other men are ravenous, waiting for their turn. In the meantime, they take what they can get. A cock in Arthur's mouth, another one sliding along his thick neck. Someone rubs his brimming sac in the king's hair. Several men are rubbing against his arms. There's one each making use of his hands. His chest is already wet and sticky with precome, the hair there matted. One man is trying to make use of Arthur's navel. 

An enterprising young squire – he's bound to win his spurs for his valour in today's battle – has found his way under his king and is thrusting up into his left arm pit. There are mouths and cocks making Arthur's feet wet. His toes are blushing pink with the attention. There are men using the back of his knees.

The first load of come is released into Arthur's mouth. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. They massage his neck, stroke his cheeks, like they're nurses making sure their charge drinks all of his medicine.

"It will do you good, Sire," Leon grunts, replacing the spent cock with his own. "Good, rich seed. It will make you strong."

Lancelot spills deep in Arthur's guts and someone else takes his place. The scent is heavy now: the acrid smell of male arousal. Arthur's hole, wet with the gifts of two men, is loud and squelching, like the twat of a mare. It drives the men wild. 

Merlin loses sight of Arthur in the crowd. Without his magic – the gift of the Sight – he wouldn't know anything. He closes his eyes and let the images flood his mind.

There are men straddling Arthur's body, trying to push their aching members into any available orifice, any fold, any crease. They're rubbing themselves sore against his sun-god skin. It is a good thing he's secured, or they would carry him off, try to mate with him until they hurt him as well as themselves.

Arthur would let them.

The men are too worked up to last. No one manages more than a couple of thrusts into the glorious heat of his gash before they're crying out and adding to the liquid bounty inside him. Arthur clenches desperately, as if he's trying to suck his men's gifts deeper into his body, where he can hold on to it. But he's already leaking, a steady stream of pearly white smearing his buttocks and flowing over the pillows onto the thirsty ground. 

Ten men have made use of his nether hole, twenty of his mouth. Soon it's thirty and sixty; then fifty and a hundred. Merlin loses count. He lies down in the grass, watches the sky deepen, from the pink of sunset to deep blue. The men tire themselves out. One by one they leave, to bathe in the little lake below and wash away the last of the heat.

Merlin stays until the sky pales again. It is midsummer and night is a promise rather than a reality. When the first spear of sunlight pierces the horizon, Merlin stands; fetches water and cloth. 

He finds Arthur alone; doused, his body streaked in white as if there have been candles burning on him. The blindfold is gone.

There are drops of white clinging to his eyelashes; white glossed on his lips and pooling in the hollow of his throat. His belly is bloated and in the shadowed place between his buttocks his skin is red and raw.

"Arthur. Sire." Arthur's eyes seem to be stuck together, but Merlin touches his cheek, says, "Beloved," and the lashes part, Arthur's eyes open. Blue, like skies washed clean by rain.

Arthur smiles a tired smile. He doesn't speak. He winces when Merlin unties him, revealing bruises where the rope has dug into his skin.

Merlin eases him off the soiled pillows and lays him on a linen blanket. He lets Arthur rest his head in his lap and washes him as tenderly as he can. He hums as he works and Arthur closes his eyes again, too tired not to.

Once Arthur's body is clean, Merlin finds the oil and starts working on Arthur's belly. The trickle from between his thighs increases, becomes a thick, sluggish flow as Merlin massages him: draws out the seed that is clotting his innards. Spent and curdling, it has lost its vitality and must be purged.

The last of it will not leave Arthur's body and Merlin is forced to lean in close.

"I'm sorry, my love." It hurts him to hurt Arthur, but there is no other way. 

He puts his lips to the swollen rose that was once a tight little bud. He sucks. Sucks and spits and sucks again. Arthur trembles, sweats, but lets Merlin do his job. Merlin sucks until there's only Arthur's own wetness leaking into his mouth. Then he unties Arthur's swollen member and Arthur spends. White spurts from the depths of his overfull sac and a gush of clear fluid from his cleft. 

Merlin gathers both juices and mingles them in his hand, before he spreads the resulting cream over Arthur's battered entrance. He puts a clean compress over it, secures it with bandages. It's the most beneficial poultice and will help Arthur heal.

He carries Arthur to their tent, puts him to bed. Outside, the birds of morning are singing, welcoming a new day.

"Sleep now." Merlin climbs into bed at Arthur's side, curls up around him. "You did so well."

"And so did you," Arthur replies. Nights like these his kingship weighs heavily on him. "I'm no ordinary man. I can never just be yours. I know it's not what you would have wanted. I'm sorry."

Merlin kisses him again and laces his fingers with Arthur's over Arthur's belly. "I will take whatever you have to offer me," he whispers into the shell of Arthur's ear. "It is enough. _You_ are enough." 

At last, they sleep.


End file.
